


Love Season

by KrisRix



Series: Three-Chord Progression [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Dinner, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, M/M, Masturbation, POV Alternating, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Sort Of, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22730992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: It’s Valentine’s Day. Which is not something I’ve put any thought into since Agatha and I broke up. I realize that makes me even more of a terrible boyfriend to Baz than I already am...Except, well, maybe notasterrible any more, given we do actually have plans for the holiday for once. They’re Baz’s plans—still, I agreed, so that’s progress. Even Bazaskingat all is progress.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Three-Chord Progression [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645438
Comments: 37
Kudos: 570





	Love Season

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, fam 🖤 Sorry it's a bit late, the idea waited until the last minute to come to me, of course.  
> Thank you so so much to [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) for the beta help!  
> Title: [Love Season](https://open.spotify.com/track/1cPx0CdoN55jpm0Z7hG4Mt?si=q-i-1GoARF2VUJpFc7vRbA) by J Boog

SIMON

It’s Valentine’s Day. Which is not something I’ve put any thought into since Agatha and I broke up. I realize that makes me even more of a terrible boyfriend to Baz than I already am...

Except, well, maybe not _as_ terrible any more, given we do actually have plans for the holiday for once. They’re Baz’s plans—still, I agreed, so that’s progress. Even Baz _asking_ at all is progress.

I was surprised when I got the text from him. (That’s how we communicate the difficult stuff. So that I have time to think of the words I want. Of what I want, full stop.) Baz had just left for class. Not even ten minutes later, I got his message:

— _Valentine’s Day is next Tuesday. Would you like to do something?_

I wrote back right away.

— _Like what???_

— _Something simple. No gifts. Dinner at mine?_

I didn’t have to think hard about my next answer, either.

— _Yeah ok that sounds good_

With how complicated our relationship has been these past two years, we’ve never really taken the time to do anything...couple-y. Especially not for our anniversary, given, well, everything else that happened that Christmas. And it’s not like I’m the romantic sort. Presenting Agatha with flowers and chocolates from Boots was about as tender as things ever got between us.

It’s not like that with me and Baz though. We’re proper tender—when I let us be. Which is more and more lately, thank magic.

After America, after...everything, I started seeing my therapist again. It was either that or follow through on breaking up with Baz. And I tried—Merlin, I _tried—_ but rehashing all my shit with my therapist was more palatable.

So...Valentine’s.

I’m showered. I’ve got my hair freshly cut. (Baz loves to rub his fingers along where it’s buzzed and then later get his hands tangled up in the long bit up top.)(I love it, too.) I’m wearing jeans and a decent jumper. Penny's spelled my wings and tail away.

Progress.

Baz told me to come round his flat at six. Fiona’s back in Rome for a few weeks—this is the first time we’ve ever taken advantage of her being gone.

We’ve never had a night to ourselves before, not entirely. Baz sleeps over sometimes. In my bed, with me. Nothing’s...happened. We just sleep. Partly because Penny is there, and I’d feel weird about doing stuff even with silencing spells; _mostly_ just because I’m still blocked about the whole sex thing. 

Baz never pressures me. I have to remind myself of that—remind myself that even when we’re kissing, and he’s slipping his hands up my shirt, that doesn’t mean he’s _pressuring_ me. It just means he _wants_ me. I’ve got better at seeing the difference between those two things.

Sometimes I wish he would, though. Pressure me, I mean. I don’t know how to operate when I’m not under pressure. As the past two years have well shown. (One of many things I’m working on with my therapist.)

Even without any sexual stuff, I love having Baz stay the night. Love when I let myself ask him to stay. Or when he feels bold enough to send me a text from the loo: ‘ _Am I staying the night?’_ Love when I’m bold enough to let him, and I message back, _‘yeah’_.

It’s fucking incredible to hold him. I’ve not got a lot of comfortable sleeping positions, what with my wings, so I always play big spoon. I’m not sure which one of us likes that more. I curl around his back, and it’s always so good to feel him warm up because of me. Especially in these cold months. (I’m _pretty sure_ it’s not just because I’m a good personal heater that he’s been asking to stay more often lately.)

Still...I’m a bit nervous to spend the night at his place. We’ve never done that.

There’s a lot Baz and I haven’t done. Obviously. Like spend a night alone. Like celebrate Valentine’s Day.

But here I am, staring at the intercom and ringing up to Baz’s flat.

Progress.

I’ve had to fight against the urge to bite my cuticles all day. The lift ride nearly breaks me, but I manage it. I take a deep breath outside Baz’s door. Before I can knock, I hear him call out:

“It’s open.”

“Good thing I’m your boyfriend,” I call back as I make my way in, “and not a serial killer.”

“I knew it was you.” Baz’s voice is coming from further into the flat. The kitchen, maybe—it smells fucking heavenly in here, the delivery must have just arrived.

“How?” I ask, to be difficult. I set down my duffel bag, take off my boots, and hang up my coat proper instead of dropping it on top of my shoes like I usually do. “I’m wearing cologne.”

There’s a smile in Baz’s voice when he responds, “You think I don’t know what your footsteps sound like? Stop sassing me and come to the kitchen.”

I’ve got a smile in my voice, too. “Smells amazing. I showed up at the perfect time, huh?”

“Yes, Snow.” As I round the turn into the kitchen, I see Baz leaning back against the hob, one hip cocked, giving me his classic smirk-and-raised-eyebrow combo. “I’m not the least bit surprised by your impeccable timing when it comes to food.”

_Merlin and Morgana._

Forget the food— _Baz_ is looking fucking delicious. He’s got on low-slung, dark, fitted jeans and a shirt that’s black with oversized blood-red roses. The sleeves are rolled up in that sinful way he does it—I can’t focus on his forearms though, because the buttons of his shirt are only half done up. Maybe less. My eyes trail down his chest, down the nearly negligible amount of fabric that’s not spread open, _down_ until I hit his belt buckle—

I gulp and snap my eyes back up.

Baz’s eyebrow is still raised, one side of his mouth still curved, but there’s a storminess in his eyes that definitely wasn’t there before. I’m pretty sure my face is bright red.

“Hungry?” Baz asks.

“What—um. What?”

He gestures to the table in the attached dining area. I manage to drag my eyes away from him to stare at the food.

Roast beef. Gravy. Scalloped potatoes. Glazed carrots. Bread and butter.

I stare, jaw going slack. “Where the hell did you get all that?”

“Well....” Baz clears his throat. When I glance back at him, he’s fiddling with his shirt cuff, and that’s when I notice the pots and bowls and such on the counters behind him.

My eyes get wider, if possible. “You _cooked?_ ”

Baz grimaces. “I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You _hate_ cooking,” I baulk.

“Yes, well—“ He clears his throat again. “It’s a special occasion.”

That’s the last straw for me.

I pounce—I can’t believe I’ve been stuck in the kitchen doorway so many feet from him this whole time, anyway. Especially when he’s looking like _that—_

He cooked! My favourites. For _me_. For Valentine’s Day. How could I _not_ kiss him senseless?

Baz groans as I shove our mouths together—I know better than to think it’s a sound of complaint. Besides, he’s immediately grabbing my hips and letting my tongue glide against his. It’s so fucking good. (Always. Still.) No surprise—Baz is good at everything. Like being both demanding and pliant at the same time. He yanks at my belt loops and melts under the press of my body, knees softening as I pin him against the counter.

I love him. I love him so fucking much. I’ve yet to say it. Maybe tonight. Maybe now—

No, not now. My mouth’s not fit for words right now.

Baz gasps when I start suckling at the hollow under his jaw. “Crowley,” he huffs, “I should have cooked for you much sooner....”

I kiss my way down his neck—difficult to do when grinning, but I’m committed to the task. I can’t drink Baz in fast enough, even with my hands shoved inside his open shirt. He hangs his head back and arches against my roving touch. Baz’s hands snake their way under my jumper to rub at my waist.

I love him, I love him, I _need_ him—

BAZ

Snow knows all the same spells I do, no matter how crap he was at casting them. A simple **some like it hot** will be enough to reheat our dinner back to perfection, yet even so I’m astonished he would choose _this_ over food. (Roast beef, no less.)

Has a bit of home-cooking and a peek of my chest been the key to his passion this whole time? I knew the way to Snow’s heart was through his stomach, but _sweet Circe_ , I didn’t factor in Snow wanting to devour _me_. When he came into the kitchen, Snow dragged his gaze down my body like I’m the most delectable thing he’s ever seen. 

I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t a hallucination. In the past three months, Snow has built his way back up to snogging me with a fervour similar to how we began our relationship (a turn of events that stuns me constantly). But this sort of enthusiasm is something else.

All I can do is moan while Snow works on bruising my throat. I’m deliriously happy whenever he marks me (both as a trophy for a successful round of ardour and as a reminder that I’m not all dead). Snow’s especially insistent tonight—he’s trailing his way down my collar and chest, bruises blooming in his wake.

As if the eagerness of the blood under my skin isn’t obvious enough, the strain of my jeans is plenty to make it evident I fed before Snow arrived. I nearly regret it—I don’t want Snow to get scared away by my erection—but then all such thoughts are summarily dissolved when Snow’s warm hand cups me through my trousers.

A strangled sound escapes me despite my attempts to stifle it. This is only the fourth time Snow has touched me there. He’s never done it this boldly. It’s an effort not to urge him on with a nudge of my hips.

Suppressing my moans is impossible when Snow’s lips dip down to the furthest stretch of my skin available, and instead of unbuttoning my shirt further or coming back up to kiss me proper, he sinks to his knees.

His eyes flick up to mine. I can clearly see sparks of anxiety coming through the haze of his lust. He’s looked at me the same way every time his hand has brushed my cock.

“Is this all right?” he asked me that first time. We were in his bed. It was only a month or so after he and Bunce had moved into their flat. We were still kissing then, still touching, and I could feel the tremble in Snow’s hand from where he felt me through my pyjama bottoms.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Whatever you want.”

He pet me a while longer as we kissed. When I tried to reciprocate, he pulled back. Shortly thereafter, he went to sleep.

Things started similarly the second time: we were in his bed, in our pyjamas, kissing and exploring. He gave me that anxious look, and I told him yes.

When I rubbed my hands over his arse, he tensed. I tried to angle my hips into his touch—I was trying to be _encouraging—_ and Snow snapped. It went downhill fast from there.

After that—when Snow made it painfully clear that he thought I was pressuring him into sex—I was terrified to touch him. And he only seemed increasingly appalled by the concept of mere kisses from that point on.

I never let myself truly believe we would make it out of that. And yet...here we are. In the past few months, we’ve made such progress.

He kisses me now. Freely. And I kiss him, too. We snuggle, and we neck, and we touch each other above the waist like it’s the most titillating thing in the world. (It _is_.) But there’s only been one time either of us dared to venture lower.

Naturally, it was Snow who attempted it—he’s always been the brave one. He stroked me through my pyjamas like he did on his previous pursuits, so long ago. I bit my lip and gripped the sheets.

I was scared. He stared at me with those same anxiety-lit eyes.

“Okay?” he asked softly. He was looming over me in his bed. He smelled like the curry we had for dinner.

I swallowed and nodded. “You don’t have to ask.”

Surprise, then relief, then humour—they all flit across Snow’s face. “Baz....”

“I mean it,” I whispered, insistent. “Let’s operate under the assumption that the answer is always yes,”—Snow frowned—“and I’ll inform you if that changes.”

I’m not sure if it was the right answer. It’s only been two weeks since then. We’ve not had any alone time....

This is so much more than curious fingertips that withdraw too soon.

This is Simon Snow on his knees before me. This is his hands on my hips, his thumbs encroaching on my belt buckle. This is his bright blue eyes staring up at me with panic and passion and the exact opposite of patience.

I swallow. And I nod.

SIMON

I’m not sure what I expected Valentine’s Day with Baz to be. Takeout and wine, maybe with dim lights and a candle (nothing scented, that stuff’s too strong for Baz), and then some snogging on the sofa while we pretended to watch Netflix.

I definitely didn’t expect him to cook. And I fucking never would have expected my response to that would be kneeling down to suck his cock. But when has my life ever gone as expected?

Not that I’m complaining. Not in this instance, anyway.

It’s a big jump to go from not being able to wank my boyfriend to completion through his pants, to having his prick in my face. Scrabbling to pull him out of his flies in his kitchen is also not the most romantic way to go about things—

There’s a lot to be anxious about, is what I’m saying. But Baz is devastatingly beautiful and way too fucking good to me and I _want_ this.

I remind myself of that on loop— _you’re doing this because you want to, not as an obligation._ I run my hand along Baz’s length once I’ve got him free. It’s terrifying and, yeah, there’s a lot to be anxious about, but— _But—_

Baz sucks in a breath as I kiss at his tip. He’s warm here. Not as hot as mine gets, though maybe he needs more time. He’s certainly hard enough. I get a thrill from the drag of my hand against him—skin against skin, _finally_. I kiss the tip again, and again, and _again—_ I angle my head here and there, opening my mouth more each time, being braver with my lips and tongue.

My anxiety is melting away as I taste him. It’s faint, and I want more. I lap at his head, giving him a snug pull with my hand, and I’m rewarded with a drip of precome. I’m too aroused by it to be embarrassed by the noise I make at the sight. And then again at the taste.

Baz whimpers. I glance up at him—and my stomach drops through the floor. He’s got his eyes screwed shut and his lips pressed together and he’s gripping the counter hard with both hands.

_Scared, scared, scared—_

I take a deep breath.

 _He’s not scared of what I’m doing_ , I tell myself. _He’s scared of what he wants_.

_We’re the same._

BAZ

It’s a delicate balance, holding myself back from urging Snow for more, but not holding back so much that I crush the marble countertop. I think I’ve stopped breathing. That’s all right, it won’t kill me. The confused burn in my lungs is a welcome distraction.

I don’t notice Snow’s hands covering mine at first. He’s nosing at my belly and coaxing my death grip open—I let him.

Snow is staring up at me, I discover, when I dare to open my eyes. His gaze is soft and unsure. He guides my hands to either side of his head. He smiles.

My bones go to jelly.

_He wants this—_

SIMON

I’ve watched some porn, I’ve seen a bloke get his cock sucked. I’ve tried to think about what that might feel like. Warm and wet and weird, I thought. On the receiving end, I mean. I’d no idea what the giving end would feel like.

Also weird, it turns out.

I’ve only got little more than Baz’s head in my mouth, and I’m overwhelmed. In a good way, I think. He’s heavy against my tongue. I rock my lips back and forth on him, feeling the slow bump of his crown against my teeth. (This isn’t the first time I’ve wondered if Baz can give a blowjob or if controlling his fangs would be too difficult.)

It’s strange and _good_ , but _Merlin’s beard_ , it’s a whole other fucking level when Baz presses his fingers into my hair fully. I drop my hands from his wrists, no longer needing to guide him. I guide myself instead, steadying Baz’s base with the crook between my thumb and forefinger one on hand while I stroke him with my other. He grips my hair harder and hisses a string of curses.

Baz is moaning and rolling his hips, and I find that I really like the way that makes him delve further into my mouth. The idea of him pushing too far and causing me to gag isn’t enough of a worry to get me to stop. In fact, I urge him on with some eager moans in return. I _like_ this, and besides, I’ve been working my arse off to get back to a place where I don’t back down from Baz’s challenges.

When I got my hair cut, I was looking forward to Baz scratching at the buzzed spots and yanking at my curls. Him doing it like _this_ though...? Fuck, I might like it a bit _too_ much—

BAZ

Snow’s eyes are closed, and he’s rumbling far too many lovely sounds as he bobs on my cock. If I give his hair a tug or the back of his head a scratch, I’m gifted with a growl that resonates right through my groin. I time it just right, and he keens the moment my tip brushes the back of his throat—my eyes roll back.

_Simon Snow is sucking me off._

What an absurd thought.

 _Simon Snow is_ enjoying _sucking me off._

His one hand abandoned me at some point. I’d be more put out by the cessation of his stroking if he hadn’t then taken to pulling even more of me into the unforgiving heat of his mouth. I verge on coming apart when I register that Snow’s hand has become busy with stroking _himself_ , instead.

_Simon Snow is enjoying sucking me off so much that he’s wanking._

I’m going to melt. I’m going to die.

Fuck, I’m going to—

SIMON

Baz’s hips stutter. “Simon—“ he chokes out, fingers digging into my head hard enough to be uncomfortable. “W-wait, I’ll—“

I keep going. Baz growls—then he whines. It’s perfect. I moan, which is the best I can do to let Baz know just how perfect it is. It’s sweet he wants to warn me and all—there’s no way I’m backing down now, though.

I’ve got to open my eyes for this part. I don’t want to miss the look on his face—

It’s a new brand of terrifying to meet Baz’s gaze right now. He’s lust-drunk and more flushed than I’ve ever seen him. He’s looking at me like I’m the answer to all his prayers.

As he falls apart around me and in me, I think, _maybe I am_.

BAZ

Well.

That was...

 _Crowley_.

I’m trying to catch my breath. It’s proving inordinately difficult, particularly thanks to two truths that keep duelling for dominance in my mind: _Snow just swallowed my come_ and _Snow is still wanking._

He’s slipped his mouth off my softening prick and has thunked his forehead against my hip. My belt is probably digging into him—he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s taut and groaning. The sound of his hand rasping along his length is going to infiltrate my dreams, I’m certain.

I hum, feeling hazy and delighted and distantly aroused. I want to help Snow through it. I want to return the favour. Instead, I stroke my hands through his hair, encouraging him.

Snow is tensing even more. His pulse is wild. His teeth are set—he’s huffing and grunting through them. I stare at the top of his head and watch what little I can of the shudders that wrack him when his pleasure reaches its peak.

_Simon Snow is coming at my feet._

_On my kitchen floor._

SIMON

I’m still making my way back to earth when Baz quietly murmurs a cleaning spell and then sinks down to his knees in front of me. I’m scared to look him in the eye, but we’ve both still got our dicks out, so there’s not a lot of places left to look.

_I can’t believe I just did that—_

Baz’s knuckles brush my cheek. Next thing I know, I’ve got my eyes locked on his, and it’s not half as scary as I thought.

He gives me an unsure smile. “All right, love?”

I struggle to answer. Nod, swallow, nod some more.

Baz kisses my forehead.

“Hap—um—happy Valentine’s Day,” I croak.

Baz chuckles against my hairline. “I thought I said no gifts?”

I huff. Baz pulls back to look at me and is relieved when he sees I’m smiling.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

I stare. “You want to kiss me after that?”

“Crowley, yes, Simon.”

I let Baz kiss me. Soft and sweet. It’s nice. Not the kissing (of course the kissing is nice, it’s always nice). Rather, the letting him. Letting him do things is nice. I’m realizing that more every day.

Once we tuck ourselves back into our clothes, Baz clears his throat. “You know,” he says slowly, “for the record....”

I brace myself.

“I’d love to return the favour.”

“O-oh?”

“Not necessarily right now,” he’s quick to add. “Just...in general.” Our eyes meet, and I don’t look away. “I want to do that for you, as well.”

My face is burning. I’m not ready in any sense of the word, but...it’s tempting. “Yeah? Um. Yeah,” I struggle. “Maybe for your birthday.” Baz’s eyebrows fly up, and I immediately regret saying it. “Sorry, that was— I didn’t— That would be a crap birthday present—“

“No, no,” he blurts over me, “it would be an _incredible_ birthday present—“

“No, it wouldn’t,” I grunt.

“ _Yes_ , it _would_.”

I blink at him. We’re both blushing. “Would it...?”

“I...yes....”

Fuck. I stare off past Baz’s shoulder and hassle my hair.

“Only,” Baz snaps, “if you’d want that. Snow, I’m not— _Simon_. I’m not saying you have to do— I’m not _pressuring_ you—“

I shut him up with a kiss.

After, I say, “I know.”

Progress.


End file.
